Come What May
by IlluminatedShadow
Summary: Matthew runs away to Paris. Arthur goes to drag him back. It's a fine mess that only gets worse before it starts to get better.


I know people are going to remind me, regardless of what I say, but whatever. I know I still have to update other stories. I know "Want You to Want Me" needs its final chapter. I have writer's block. I don't know how to wrap it up. And, when I have writer's block, I usually try to write my way out of it (which explains the random flow of UK/Can. That way, at least I have something to show for it. I mean, I could always take a long break to deal with and let my account gather dust, but I figure this is a better option. Besides, I was watching "Moulin Rouge" and I was quite inspired. In fact, for this story specifically, I was inspired by the songs "Come What May" and "El Tango de Roxanne". Also, I've been writing stuff for the kink meme so I'm trying to inspire myself to finish up that fic.

Warnings: language, sexual situations, mentioned non-con, fail, OOCness, confusion, slash

Pairing: sort of UK/Can

Disclaimer: Thank goodness I don't own Hetalia.

* * *

"I don't understand why you keep coming." Matthew says quietly, spindly fingers fluttering around his tied back hair, untwisting the satin, crimson ribbon and pulling it off, letting it flutter onto the vanity of his room. His blond hair tumbles down to his shoulders, much longer than Arthur had remembered. "It seems like such a waste of time." He adds, looking over at Arthur, near translucent lashes half-mast over indigo eyes.

"And whoring your self out in the underworld of Paris instead of concentrating on your duties—your duties to your people, your politicians—"

"To you." Matthew interrupts, sliding the silk robe off slowly, revealing milky shoulders and a smooth expanse of unmarred skin. Arthur can see the sharp line of his collarbone. "I am only shirking on my duties to you. And I am not a whore."

Arthur smiled, nastily and, patronizingly, said, "I had to buy you, didn't I?"

The blond's face reddens and, swiftly, he lets the robe drop to the ground with a soft _whoosh_. It pools around his feet, in a crumpled swirl of rose. The colony holds his head at a proud tilt, his sharp nose pointed upwards and his entire countenance dares Arthur to speak.

"You're shameless." Arthur says coolly. "Tell me, Matthew. Just how many have seen you like this? Touched you? How many have known you?"

He will not tremble at the sight of a mere wisp of a boy.

Matthew just gives him a soft, half smile, as though a great secret has just been shared between them, and shrugs. He steps towards Arthur, who is sitting on the chaise, arms crossed and watching the other's advance stoically. Matthew, artlessly, slides into his lap, wrapping sinewy arms loosely around the Empire's shoulders. His knees are on either side of Arthur. He presses against him.

"Why do you continue to come here?" The blond asks, lips at his ear. "When you know the answer will always be the same?"

"You're my colony." The sandy-haired man responds easily, green eyes sharp under thick eyebrows. He makes no move to touch his nude charge who's violet eyes gleam tauntingly.

"I'm an ungrateful, half-French bastard." Matthew says sharply, throwing the Englishman's enraged words from months before in his face. "A slut. A whore. A stupid, stupid child who knows nothing."

Arthur doesn't realize that Matthew falls asleep with the other's heated words reverberating in his ears.

"Are you quite done?" He asks coldly and Matthew gives him a frustrated look.

"You're horrible." The boy scowls, punching the cushion behind Arthur's head, an angry flush on his cheeks. "I wish I didn't need you."

"And until you don't, you are mine." Arthur whispers, one hand coming up to clench at wispy curls. He scarred fingers knot in those tresses and tug, forcing Matthew to bare his throat. "I do not care if you ever appreciate what I have done for you. I do not care if you hate me. But you will learn to behave and you will learn your place."

And then he rises to his feet, letting Matthew fall to the floor. The colony seems to wilt, gaze focused on the floor and one hand gripping his bicep. Arthur stares down at him, something vaguely soft crossing his expression before it hardens. "Put on some clothes. You're coming back to London even if I have to drag you back by your hair." He straightens, adjusting his waistcoat. "Enough is enough."

* * *

"Must you ruin the boy's fun?" Francis asks, not looking at the other European. He is leaning against the corridor wall, wearing a fashionable shirt and trousers with his blond hair tied back with a ribbon. "He is far more suited to Paris than stifling London. The food is more agreeable here. There is a certain color to his cheeks." He gives the Englishman a sly look. "He is loved here."

"Loved? Oh yes." Arthur snorts, giving the other a dirty look. "He is loved here. Every night. Sometimes two, three times a night even." He expression darkens. "You know, I remember a time you could not even look at a women without fear of retribution from your God."

Francis smiles bitterly. "But then my God abandoned me."

"Even he could not stand the stench of Paris."

"You forget who brought you here, cher." The Frenchman said sharply, his aristocratic features twisted grotesque.

"And I am appalled you let him stew here for so long." Arthur exploded, hands curling into fists and emerald eyes blazing. "What? Did you want to have a go at him too?"

"How dare you…to insinuate—you…" Francis trails off in fury, his accent becoming more pronounced as he spits out a vulgar tirade in his native tongue, attacking not only Arthur but also his monarchs and mother. "He wanted to get away from you!"

"And you're always so quick to help out when one of my colonies wants to get away from me."

"It would not be so easy if you were not such a beast. You ruined him."

"I ruined? No. You stood by and let him be used. You might as well have abandoned him again. You're no father, no brother. You're hardly a friend and its no wonder you're the laughing stock of Europe."

"And yet he still told you where I was in the end." A soft voice cut in and Arthur turns to see Matthew standing there in plain trousers and a shirt. Brushing past Arthur, he passes Francis and stands at the top of the staircase.

The vivacious sounds of music and merrymaking are louder now. The main event must be starting.

"Mon petit." Francis begins hoarsely, pointedly not looking at Arthur. "Are you sure you want to leave?"

"I have overstayed." Matthew says quietly. "And don't pretend you want me….to stay, Francis. Otherwise Arthur would still be in London and none the wiser."

And he walks down the stairs.

* * *

The coach ride is silent. Matthew has not spoken more than a few words to Arthur since the beginning of their journey. They are now on the last leg.

Matthew spends the ride, looking out the window at the dreary countryside.

"For what its worth…" Arthur pauses, waiting for Matthew to look at him. He doesn't. "…I did not mean to upset you."

"That is not an apology." Matthew responds so softly that if Arthur wasn't waiting for a response, he would've missed it. "But that's the best you'll give, isn't it?" There's silence, before he continues. "And to answer your earlier question…many." He looks right into Arthur's eyes, the barest smirk flitting on his lips.

It doesn't bother Arthur. Much.

* * *

"It's because Francis was right outside." Matthew muses aloud. "You didn't want him to know just how right he is."

"Be quiet." Arthur ordered, dipping his hands in the water basin and soaking a cloth before making his way back to the blond who is lying flat on his back. Without looking at the other, the Englishman began to methodically scrub away evidence of their activities.

Matthew shudders when the damp fabric brushes against his more private regions, icy water stinging his fair skin. He rolls onto his side, fingers digging into the sheets as Arthur, kneeling on the bed, looks at him with vague frustration. He makes a disdainful noise in the back of his throat, moving off the bed.

"You'll let half of Paris grope you, fuck you. But suddenly I'm a monster for having what is rightfully mine?"

"No." Matthew seems to curl in on himself. "You're a monster because that is simply what you are."

"I saved you. I gave you something more than words, more than ideas." Arthur snaps. "I let you keep your God and your language."

"But have undermined every single attempt for me to create any sort of unification that doesn't revolve around you!" Matthew shouts, rolling over and rising onto his knees. "And, if you really must know, this has nothing to do with Canada." His bare chest is rising and falling rapidly and there's a glimmer of something in his wide eyes. "I didn't run away because England doesn't give a damn about Canada."

The Englishman stares at the boy quietly. Matthew stills, sniffling and pulls the sheet up to his waist, wrapping himself in the white cloth. He looks down at his lap.

* * *

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Arthur said quietly as they stood on the docks. "To go home? Your bear is waiting for you. The Governor General will retrieve you. He is quite displeased at your delay." He chuckled but Matthew remained quiet, merely looking at him with bruised eyes.

"Is this because of what I said?" He asked, hesitantly.

Arthur shook his head. "You will understand when you are older. You are…just a child."

"Suddenly I am a child?" Matthew laughed humorlessly. "A few days ago, the thought of someone else touching me enraged you…and now I am a child."

"I have only just remembered." Arthur said firmly.

* * *

So here was semi-bastard!England. I don't think he was a pedo. I don't think he was a shit father. I don't think he was a rapist (well...in this case, yes he was). I genuinely think he and Matthew got off to a rough start but eventually had a fairly cordial relationship. But that's not fun to write about, in my opinion. So, you get jealous, damn-it-you're-mine-why-won't-you-accept-that?England and bratty!Canada. (Hint: Love was actually a driving force behind the actions in this fic.)

This story. Well, I suppose it takes place in that same universe as "Intentions", "To Suffer", and "Break Faith". Not that those are related, but I feel that they're all loosely connected somehow. The lowdown of this fic: Matthew ran away to Paris, became a (male) courtesan (after a fight with Arthur, just to piss him off). Francis found him and wrote to Arthur eventually. (Why? Because he knew Matthew would only leave if Arthur made him.) Why did I write this? Lol, couldn't help it. Also, courtesan!Matthew has appealed to me lately. I can't be the only one who finds him sexy. -shot-

I wanted to make this tense and understated. I suppose I'll find out if I succeeded. Though, I did enjoy writing this. Even though I rewrote it a few times.

(I like classy whore! Matthew. -shot repeatedly-)


End file.
